THE EXPLOSION
Other people than Mr. Chowdler were dissatisfied with the state of
affairs, though none expressed disapproval with quite such acrimony.
For the first time for many years the numbers in the school were down.
This was in part due to the deliberate action of the headmaster.
Veterans in the lower forms of the school had been invited to “move
on”; and the veterans were numerous. But there was another reason for
the shrinkage and one on which Mr. Chowdler and his friends were more
inclined to lay stress; namely, that several names had been withdrawn
at the eleventh hour from the January entrance list. From the nature of
its clientèle, Chiltern was affected, more than most schools, by the
gossip of the London clubs; and, in the London clubs, opinion was not
favourable to the new régime. The case of le Willow had created a most
unfortunate impression. “_I’m_ not going to send my boy to a school
where they sack for cribbing,” said one parent to another. “Cribbed
myself when I was a boy, and so did all my pals.”
“The new man’s no sportsman,” added a second, “and the boys simply
can’t stick him.”
“No more can the masters,” interjected a third. “I met one of them
in Switzerland, and, from what _he_ said, I should say the place was
simply going to pot as fast as it can.”
In Mr. Chowdler’s eyes the place undoubtedly was “going to pot.” In
season and out of season he called everybody’s attention to this
lamentable truth, and the fact that he was unable to prevent it preyed
upon his mind. It preyed to such an extent that a moment came when he
committed an act which brought on the inevitable crisis.
In the third week of Term the headmaster convened a special masters’
meeting to discuss certain matters which he considered urgent. Not only
did he convene it for the particular time at which Mr. Chowdler was
accustomed to play a round of golf, but the first item on the programme
was the question of Sunday hours.
Now the Sunday arrangements at Chiltern were perhaps unusual, but they
were hallowed by tradition and shared, in a way, the sacred character
of the day. Briefly, they left a clear break, interrupted only by tea,
between lunch at 1.30 and chapel at eight. Exact contemporaries of Mr.
Chowdler might have recalled that, in his early days, he himself had
viewed this long interval with disfavour. But it is no reproach to a
man to change his mind, and, with a riper experience, Mr. Chowdler had
learned to love and value the Chiltern Sunday. To himself it meant a
long country walk and a most refreshing snooze afterwards; but that
was not the reason why he valued it. He valued it because it was so
good for the boys; because it gave them, what no other school gives its
boys, time to know themselves, time for thought, and especially _home_
thoughts; and because it made of Sunday what Sunday ought to be, “a
morally recuperative day.” “We must put our foot down,” he said to his
colleagues; “there must be no tampering with Sunday.”
Masters’ meetings at Chiltern were held in the library. The headmaster
and the ten housemasters sat round an oak table; and others occupied
chairs wherever chairs happened to be. This disposition of forces
created a rather invidious distinction between the juniors and the ten
who often abused their position to make important remarks in tones
which were inaudible to the rest of the meeting. But the invidiousness
was felt more keenly by the juniors than by the ten. Mr. Flaggon
disliked the arrangement for other reasons. Seated at the head of
the table, _primus inter pares_, he felt uncomfortably close to the
housemasters and inconveniently removed from the rest of the staff;
and, if he wished to be heard by all, he had to raise his voice and
speak through, or over, his immediate neighbours in a way that was
unpleasant for both. He sighed for a dais and a more elevated seat,
and, accordingly, he had suggested tentatively to some of the senior
men the advisability of holding the meetings elsewhere. But the
suggestion had given genuine pain. It was unthinkable that Chiltern
masters should meet anywhere but under the portrait of Dr. Lanchester;
and the only other portrait of Dr. Lanchester was in the Great Hall, an
obviously impossible place. So, wishing to avoid unnecessary friction,
Mr. Flaggon had resigned himself to the library for the present.
Perhaps, as he sat with his back to the portrait, he was less conscious
of inspiration than his colleagues.
It was therefore from the traditional place, at the head of the oak
table, that Mr. Flaggon made the remarks which provoked a scene
memorable in the annals of Chiltern. It had been borne in upon him, he
said, by events in the preceding Term, that the long interval between
dinner and chapel was fraught with considerable danger. The danger was
obviously greater in the summer Term than in any other, when lock-up
was later; and, some time in March, he proposed to consider a complete
rearrangement of the time-table for the day. But, for the present, he
wished to make as little change as possible. He was therefore going
to ask housemasters to arrange for a preparation in their houses at
half-past four on Sundays. Tea would be at 5.30 and chapel at the usual
time.
Mr. Chowdler had come to the meeting in the worst of tempers. Apart
from the fact that he was deeply attached to the _status quo_, he had
been deprived of his golf, and, being a man full of habit of body,
he could not afford to miss his exercise. And so, the headmaster had
scarcely finished speaking, when he broke in with no attempt to conceal
his anger.
“It has always been customary,” he said, “to consult housemasters on
matters of this kind before raising them at a general meeting.”
Mr. Flaggon lifted his eyebrows slightly, but replied quite calmly: “I
shall be glad to consider any difficulties that may be put to me in
private; but, in a matter of this kind, on which I feel very strongly,
I must decide for myself and in accordance with my own judgment.”
“Do I understand,” cried Mr. Chowdler, raising his voice and glaring at
his chief, “that we are to have this ill-considered ukase thrust down
our throats without discussion? Because, if so, let me say that that is
an indignity to which we are _not_ accustomed.”
“I think I have made it clear,” said Mr. Flaggon, “that I do not
propose to take a vote on this question, and I have stated my reasons:
I wish to see the experiment tried.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Chowdler, turning half round in his chair so
as to face his colleagues, “I, for one, shall decline to obey.”
“I have noted your refusal with extreme regret,” replied Mr. Flaggon,
so quietly that the words would hardly have been heard in the more
distant parts of the room, if it had not been for the intense silence
that prevailed. And then, before anybody had recovered from the
surprise and shock, he passed on to the second item on the programme.
The rest of the business was dispatched rapidly and without any of the
irrelevant comment which was usually a feature of masters’ meetings.
Everybody was anxious to get away, to breathe the fresh air, and to
take stock of his own and other people’s impressions.
“Chowdler’s downed him,” whispered Mr. Rankin, as the masters trooped
into the great quadrangle with grave and anxious faces.
“I don’t know,” replied the younger man thus addressed. “It can’t end
there. And,” he added, “it _ought_ not to end there.”
Whether Mr. Chowdler felt any secret misgivings, it is impossible to
say. Probably not. By dint of always speaking of “the empty one” he had
persuaded himself that Mr. Flaggon was essentially a weak, unmeritable
man who was aping the despot. Besides, Mr. Chowdler was not an adept
at self-criticism, and was quite incapable of looking at himself from
the outside. Presumably, therefore, he regarded his display of temper
as an outburst of passionate but righteousness indignation, a kind of
prophetic “Thus saith the Lord.” And, as the day ended without further
incident, he may have thought, with Mr. Rankin, that the man Flaggon
was “downed.”
But, on the morrow, two things happened which brought him face to face
with some very unpleasant facts. At first lesson a notice came round to
say that in future, on Sunday afternoons, there would be preparation
in houses at 4.30 o’clock; and, later on in the morning, he received a
letter from the headmaster couched in the following terms:
DEAR MR. CHOWDLER,
I have put off writing till to-day in the hope that some word from
you would enable me to take a course different from the one which the
events of yesterday and your subsequent silence compel me to pursue.
I hope that I shall never fear honest and outspoken criticism. But
there are decencies to be observed without which a headmaster’s
position becomes impossible; and your behaviour to myself yesterday
leaves me no alternative but to assume that you intended deliberately
to challenge my authority as headmaster. It is with a grave sense of
responsibility and in no vindictive spirit that I feel obliged to
request you to send in your resignation, to take effect at the end of
the present Term.
Yours faithfully,
S. E. FLAGGON.
The first effect of this letter on Mr. Chowdler was to make him feel
as if the solid ground were crumbling away beneath him; but, the next
moment, his combative spirit reasserted itself, and, dashing to his
writing-table, he scribbled off what he afterwards described as “a calm
and dignified reply.”
SIR,
I think we may speak to each other in plain English. What you are
pleased to call a request for my resignation, _I_ call a notice
of dismissal. I shall therefore exercise my right of appeal (see
“Statutes,” p. 131, Schedule D, Clause 4). The Council must decide
between us.
Yours, etc.,
H. CHOWDLER.
Mr. Flaggon verified the reference and found that, by an old and
unrepealed regulation, Mr. Chowdler had indeed the right of appeal to
the Council against dismissal. He therefore sent the following note:
DEAR MR. CHOWDLER,
I am informing the Chairman of the Council of my decision and of
the reasons which have dictated it, by to-morrow evening’s post at
latest. You must take whatever steps you think right.
Yours faithfully,
S. E. FLAGGON.
The fat, as at least half-a-dozen people said spontaneously, was in
the fire, and Chiltern could think and talk of nothing else. There
was a general agreement that Chowdler’s behaviour at the meeting had
passed the limits of decorum; but, while the seniors maintained that
the headmaster should have ignored the offence in a man whose services
to the school were so notorious and of such long standing, many of the
juniors held that, if Flaggon didn’t give old Chowdler the boot, he was
done for. There was an equal difference of opinion as to the probable
issue of the appeal. The moderates thought that there was still room
for compromise. Chowdler could withdraw his offensive remarks and
then Flaggon could withdraw his notice of dismissal. Others, who knew
Chowdler’s love of battle, were sure that he would fight it out to the
end and win. Others, again, did not see how the Council could possibly
throw over a headmaster whom they had so recently appointed.
To Mr. Plummer the whole episode was painful in the extreme, and the
ideal of a united staff seemed farther off than ever. He was torn
between two conflicting loyalties--loyalty to an official chief, and
loyalty to a senior colleague. He expressed his inner feelings to Mr.
Bent on one of their frequent walks, more from force of habit than
because he expected to find a sympathetic listener.
“Of course,” he said, “one can’t defend the way Chowdler _does_
things; and nothing could possibly have been worse than his behaviour
the other day. Still, one must remember that he has had great
provocation--_great_ provocation.”
“That’s just like you!” replied Mr. Bent. “Chowdler is for trailing his
coat across the green, and when he succeeds in tripping somebody, you
say that he has had great provocation. What provocation, pray! Name!”
“Well,” said Mr. Plummer, “there was the le Willow business to begin
with.”
“A matter of principle,” said Mr. Bent. “A headmaster who sacrificed
his principles to a Chowdler, at the first summons, wouldn’t be fit to
be a crossing-sweeper!”
“And then there was his refusal to make Cheeny Prefect,” said Mr.
Plummer doggedly.
“Again a question of principle!” cried his companion. “And you’re
talking as if Chowdler were the captain of the ship and Flaggon his
second mate.”
“No, I’m not,” said Mr. Plummer. “But, after Gussy, Chowdler’s position
under a new man was bound to be difficult, and Flaggon ought to have
made allowances; he ought to have been more tactful.”
“Tact on Chowdler,” said Mr. Bent, “is like a feather on a
hippopotamus. Chowdler doesn’t ask for tact; he demands unconditional
surrender.”
“Anyhow,” persisted Mr. Plummer, “though he does it badly, Chowdler
represents what many, if not most, of us feel. You know I’m not one of
the people who go shouting their criticisms on the house-tops: but,
candidly, I don’t approve of the new régime.”
“What don’t you approve of, pray?” asked Mr. Bent scornfully. “The
weeding out of the old and incompetent? the attempt to restore
discipline? the----”
“I’m not going to particularise,” said Mr. Plummer, “but I distrust
Flaggon’s whole attitude; especially in a man who has no experience.
The boys are discontented, the staff is divided, the numbers are down,
and we’re all wondering where it’s going to end.”
“‘Ye fools and uncircumcised in heart and mind,’” burst out Mr. Bent,
“‘ye do always resist the Holy Ghost: as your fathers did, so do ye.’”
“That’s blasphemous,” cried Mr. Plummer.
“I believe that’s what they said of Stephen,” replied Mr. Bent,
recovering his composure. “But, as a matter of fact, I was quoting from
an unpublished letter of Lanchester’s; and he happened to be speaking
of an eighteenth-century Chowdler.”